


Sins of The Father

by Lxghts



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Fix-It, Gen, Post-Black Panther (2018), Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:04:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lxghts/pseuds/Lxghts
Summary: “Welcome back.” T'Challa says simply, expression carefully neutral. His eyes graze over to the vitals before he settles back on him.“Thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to be your prisoner.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “We are born with our father's names. We are not responsible for their failures. We are responsible for what they made us believe in. That is our only obligation. And it is even then a choice which we may sometimes be wise to ignore.”― Warren Eyster, The Goblins of Eros

He found his dad lying on the floor, multiple holes in his chest. Nobody will ever know the truth of that day, it was omitted from the police reports. Nobody will ever know that they had found him, blood crusted on his jacket and hands. He cried so hard he fell asleep sitting up, his fathers cold head resting in his lap, arms wrapped around him as if he could keep the already extinguished life from escaping his body. They had to pull him off. 

A mother who succumbed to cancer, a father victim to gang violence in a bad section of an Oakland neighborhood. That’s the story local outlets ran; just another stabbing. He was young but he knew enough, his father- N’Jobu- had told him about Wakanda and its king only a few days ago. He saw the injury, the five distinct slits with hand-shaped spacing. For the longest time he thought it was his fault. His father had divulged information about this secret country, and was killed only a few days later for it. It was easy to blame himself when there was nothing else. Stabbed through the chest and bled out like an animal.

He looks over the expanse of mountains he had been told so reverently about- and only thinks of how fitting it is that he will perish in almost the same way.

———————

There is a current in the air, humming with an all-too familiar electricity. If he is truly dead, then it turns out he will never escape the white noise of vibranium tech. 

But he isn’t dead.

He swims to the surface of consciousness, taking a gasping breath from his once punctured lung. Nothing hurts, his heart is not spurting blood, there is only a dull ache where the spear’s blade had pierced him. He opens his eyes and sits up, feeling frantically at his chest. No stitches, not even any raised skin to go with the rest of his scars. He takes the time to instead observe the room around him. A saline drip runs from his arm, and a monitor pointed towards the door displays his vitals. The room is otherwise empty. He tries to get up but cannot move.

The door opens with a hydraulic whine, and T’Challa steps in a moment later, hands clasped behind his back. He is wearing plain black clothes.

“Welcome back.” He says simply, expression carefully neutral. His eyes graze over to the vitals before he settles back on him.

“Thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to be your prisoner,” He almost spits. Almost. He is still weak. 

T’Challa’s jaw ticks, and he nods. Neither of them had been hoping for this outcome, “I know you are not as familiar with the Heart-shaped herb, but its properties extend beyond just strength. You would not have died that easily.” 

He takes a moment to turn this over. T’Challa says nothing. He saw them take the powers of the black panther away at the falls before their combat. Whatever courses through his veins is the only reason he is alive.

“Reverse it.” He demands. 

“It's too late for that, you are healed.” 

He feels the hatred and anger boil over before he can control himself, “You wanted this-“

“I wanted none of this! You-“ He raises a finger to point at him, “brought all of this on yourself. But by all means, if you want to continue our fight, I'll be happy to oblige.” He gestures to his body, laid out on the hospital bed as if to remind him he was unconscious just several minutes ago. 

“How long?” He asks finally, deflated.

“It has been two days.” 

Erik curses under his breath. Really, he didn’t know what he had been expecting. Either way he is here now, a captive of a family that has betrayed him. T’Challa doesn’t have enough malice in his heart to let him die. He pities him. He tries to sit up again but is held to the bed by multiple restraints. 

He bares his teeth instead. “Don’t look at me like that, I don’t need your pity.” 

A corner of his mouth quirks upwards, “You think I pity you?” 

“Why am I here, then?” He shoots back.

He wishes he could finish what they’ve danced around for weeks now, especially with the way T’Challa is looking at him right now. He looks around the room and knows now that their exchange is probably being recorded somehow. This whole conversation being observed behind closed doors somewhere else, no doubt by his General and Dora. 

He sighs. “The council has decided that you are too dangerous to be kept here, but cannot be banished to become someone else’s problem.” 

Great.

He continues, “We are monitoring you here for now, until it is decided what to do, with some help from a friend.”

“Seems like more trouble than it’s worth. What happens when I kill your friend and bounce?”

At that, T’Challa really does smirk. “I don’t think it will be that easy.”

Erik turns away, seeing red in the corners of his vision. He wants nothing more than to throttle his cousin, take back control of what was rightfully his. He had accepted the fact that when the two of them fought, one wouldn’t walk away. He would either continue ruling from the throne of Wakanda or die. He hadn’t prepared for this strange circumstance, being at the mercy of a family he hadn’t known his whole life, and who didn’t know or accept him as one of their own. He was the son of a traitor, the defector N’Jobu.

He says nothing else, resolutely waiting for T’Challa to give up and leave.

The man eventually acquiesces, rubbing his tired eyes and turning to the door.

“Do not mistake the guilt I carry on behalf of my father’s sins as pity. What he did was wrong. I would’ve looked for you had I known.”

The door clicks softly behind him, and Erik is alone once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only a vague idea of where im going with this so buckle in kids

  
“You’ll be swimming against the current. Wakandans are loyal to tradition. But with enough support, we’ll be able to shift the tide. You already have the border tribe’s support. They’ve seen what it’s like out there.” 

It had been several nights since he’d taken the throne. He went to W’kabi for counsel each night, without the elders around to refute each proposal. They sat in his family’s estate in front of a vaulted window, looking over the lights of the city below.

“What are you suggesting?” He asked. He didn’t know how to rule a country the way W’kabi might have.

“The sister of T’Challa.”

“I gotta kill her, too?”

“You might. But she is always building weapons, disloyal to tradition. She might be useful to have on your side.”

When the time comes to recruit her, she has vanished.

The next time he sees her he is on the ground, desperately trying to cover his ears as she hits him with some dampener that envelopes the suit and weighs his body down like a lead blanket.

He will never have her support, so when the favor shifts and she is thrown to the ground, he moves to strike. To end it. But it’s never that easy.

  
———

 

He is left on his own for hours. At least that’s what it feels like.Death would have been more welcome than being chained to a bed in a windowless room. 

He tried to break out of the restraints several times, testing their strength and bruising the skin underneath them in bouts of anger. 

T’Challa must be watching him somewhere, or maybe he is out dealing with the collateral of a split border tribe and damaged vibranium mine. 

The ache in his chest eventually subsides. His strength seems to return with each moment he is awake, and with that comes a clearer mind, his resolve to somehow escape solidifying. He just needs someone to come through the door, and he’ll work from that.

He won’t be complacent in his own imprisonment. They will throw him in a fortified cell to rot and he knows it. T’Challa will not let him go, no matter how much he claims moral superiority over his father. The kings of Wakanda are all the same. 

He keeps trying to stronghold his way out of the cuffs on his wrists, the strap across his lower abdomen that holds his body to the bed. There is no give. He overexerts himself and slumps back. Wakandan tech, he thinks with a huff.

The door opens before he can try again, sitting up and mentally preparing himself for another round with T’Challa. 

Instead Shuri walks through, a triage of Dora flanking her as she enters. They break off and stand guard at the door. She carries a small device over to the edge of his bed, wordless, and prompts him to lift his arm up. 

“Give me your arm.” She says when he doesn’t move. Her abruptness is telling, she’d rather be anywhere else than here.

“What’s that?” He asks suspiciously.

She narrows her eyes down at him and fixes him with a look, dropping her hand with the cuff.

“Tracking device, it will knock you out faster than a rhino with narcolepsy if you make the slightest move to hurt anyone, or take it off for that matter.” She masks her pride. Shuri’s inventions are the most advanced tech available in the modern world.

“Out on parole already?” 

“Hilarious.” She deadpans, then, “Your arm.”

He holds it up wordlessly. He doesn’t really have a choice when the Dora are looking at him like they’d all gladly take turns skewering him. Anything to get him out of this room faster.

She snaps it on. It sits just above the other shackle on his wrist, and snakes around his arm before it clamps down, just a little too tight. It feels like it partly embedded itself into his skin.

“There.” She says while turning away. 

The Dora do a series of soft knocks against the door and begin to file out as it opens. He’ll be left alone again, and part of him panics at the thought, as much as he wants to pretend to not care.

“That’s it? I’m saying here?” He calls after them. 

Shuri pauses but doesn’t turn around. “The King will be back soon to escort you out.” There’s no missing the way she emphasizes the title. 

“I need your help.”

It sounds stupidly weak in the empty acoustics of the room.

She takes the bait. She leans out the door to say some hushed Wakandan to the Dora, who nod from the hallway. The door clicks shut again and she approaches to stand just feet from the bed.

“I have already helped you enough. And even now I'm beginning to regret listening to my brother.”

He blanches at that. 

“What?”

“My brother brought you to me genius. You got blood all over my favorite shirt. I only helped because he asked me to.”

“The herb healed me.” He echoes.

“It kept you alive. Barely. I did the rest of the work.” 

He sits back and processes this. T’Challa had lied, or at least left that part out. He would have died if no one intervened. The man would rather deliberately ignore his dying wish than to live with a guilty conscious. It makes something harden in his gut.

She interrupts his train of thought, “If you don’t tell me what you want I’m leaving.” 

“Don’t be like that, baby cuz. You’re not like the others. That must mean you and I gotta see eye to eye on some things.” 

“None of that matters. You’re responsible for all of those who died at my mine.” 

He barks out a little mirthless laugh before he can help himself. “How many people all over Africa you think died while Wakanda did nothing?” 

Her hardened expression falters before she can hide it. This obviously strikes a chord with her. “You are no better if your idea of change means more bloodshed. How blind are you? We are a neutral country and you tried to exploit our weapons and kill my family. ” 

“I _am_ your family.”

“Blood does not make us family.” She retorts. Its like arguing with a sibling. In another life he thinks they would’ve been closer, a life when her father hadn’t killed his. But he’s not trying to argue pedantics with her. These people are too set in their ways to talk any sense into. Even if Shuri is different, she won't be convinced otherwise today.

“Look, you’re smart. You know the only way this goes for me. I was ready to die. Don't let them throw me in a cell.” 

“It's the least you deserve.” She says. It has enough bite but her heart is not in it.

“Something tells me you don’t really believe that.” Really, he is just guessing. The fact that she hasn’t walked out yet means something.

She is different from her family, and most people in Wakanda for that matter. She doesn’t follow any formalities or tradition. She was raised on the belief her country was the greatest powerhouse in Africa. But now she knows some of the truth with his appearance. They have done nothing with their power. Her people have let her down, her father- a murderer.

Her eyes unfocus briefly, like she’s deep in thought. Without another word she turns on her heel and heads for the door. Erik’s heart drops, knowing he’ll be stationary for several more hours. Worse, T’Challa will be the one to retrieve him and escort him to another cell.

The Dora open it promptly after the knocks. She toggles with something on her kimoyo bracelet and his shackles fall away. The tracking device on his wrist remains secure.

“Come before I change my mind.” She turns to the Dora, adding, “Let Barnes know.”


End file.
